


A Tree Withered in Winter

by ladysassafrass



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Durin Angst, Durin Family, Emotional Baggage, Everything Hurts, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, I'm so sorry, Other, for the masochistic reader who wants to die by feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:32:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysassafrass/pseuds/ladysassafrass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five times that Thorin was called upon by his father, and the one time he wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a headcanon I got in the shower one day. It's my version of Thrain and Thorin's presumably complicated relationship; little to none of their characterization is canon. If you want to get your heart ripped out of your chest by Durin angst, this ficlet is for you.

I. Daybreak

He was fifteen when his father one day announced they would go to see the Mirrormere. They departed in a pack of ten dwarves on ten laden ponies. Behind them waved an unsmiling woman, her countenance noble and grave, her belly a soft swell beneath midnight robes of velvet. Tugging at her arm was a young girl with black locks tumbling over her eyes. She begged her mother loudly to join the two, only to be sharply tutted into silence.

The journey took less than a month, but it was a long month, full of silent meals and twanging nerves and jolts of fright when the occasional shrill howl was heard in the distance. No lords welcomed father and son into the halls; rather, the party slipped around the entrance like thieves and traveled over the peaks. Out of the mountains slipped cackles like paper-thin blades to their ears. Son noticed father’s tightened fists whenever they could hear the vile occupants beneath their feet, and felt that he should be angry too. On the third morning since arriving at Moria, before the sun had even thought to wake, his father called upon him. Off they dashed to a silent glade, tucked like a secret in the mountains’ crock. At its heart, a lake long and oval, its surface preternaturally smooth like a polished sapphire.

His father strode assuredly to its edge while the boy walked with tentative steps behind. He secretly feared that their approach would violate some ancient, unspoken law that demanded such stillness upon the vale. His father, unperturbed by such worries apparently, knelt down on one knee by its glassy edge, and son followed suit on gawky legs.

“Thorin.”

“M’lord Thrain?”

His father’s mouth cracked as a thin smile snuck upon his lips. “You may call me ‘father’ when there is naught but us.”

“Right,” mumbled Thorin, his cheeks flashing warm. “…Father.”

With a thick finger studded with gold rings, Thrain pointed at the unruffled waters. “This,” he explained, “is Kheled-zâram, the Mirrormere. Long, long ago, when Durin awoke in Mount Gundabad, the northmost of the Misty Mountains, he came across this very lake. Entranced by its smoothness and deep blue hue, he knelt down by its edge and peered into its depths. There he saw the stars, glimmering as bright as diamonds, even though it was midday and there were no stars in the sky. Seven stars had formed a circle around his head, like a crown. This, he realized, was a sign, a sign of his sacred right to rule. And so he followed the waters that fed this sanctified lake and declared those lands the site of his great halls; Khazad-dûm, the glorious dwarven city. It is now desecrated by goblins and dark terrors too great to imagine, denigrated to Moria, the Black Pit.” Thrain’s shoulders shook at the thought, and Thorin, despite his limited understanding at the time, felt furious with him.

“Now my son.” A heavy hand suddenly rested itself on Thorin’s shoulder. His father pointed hard at the midnight blue depths. “What do you see?”

With a gulp, Thorin looked, unconsciously holding his breath so as to not disturb the sacred waters. He squinted his eyes, looking hard into the mystical blue and ...

There it was: seven twinkling stars, like pearls beneath the watery glass. Abashedly, he glanced up and confirmed that in fact the sky was starless, a pale yellow-blue as the sun broke above the black silhouettes of mountain peaks into the still vale.

“I see the stars,” Thorin said breathlessly, staring back down at the Mirrormere. “The crown, too.” Indeed, there lay the seven stars forming a circle in the midnight depths.

“Ah, isn’t it marvelous,” Thrain replied, his eyes gleaming like his son’s at the wonder they beheld. “Do you happen to see anything else?”

“I see the night sky,” said Thorin. “The stars above, even though it is dawn.”

“Do you happen to see your reflection?”

Thorin frowned then looked into the depths. His eyes widened. “No, I do not see my reflection, father.”

“Ah.” His father smiled kindly at him. “Another wonder of the lake; only Durin himself could see his reflection. It is believed that his reincarnation would be able to as well.” With that, he gave two heavy pats on Thorin’s back. “No matter, no matter at all,” he mumbled low, as if to himself.

Thorin wondered if his father’s voice did not hold a slight twinge of sadness. As Thrain stood up and made to return to camp, Thorin snuck one final peek into the lake. The stars twinkled not as bright as before, perhaps because of the dawning day, or perhaps due to his imagination. And still no reflection, he thought, a tad disappointed.

Disappointed? Why? Could he expect himself to be a reincarnation of Durin the Deathless? But yet, looking at his father’s back, his heart ever so slightly sank in his chest, and for no good reason at all.

* * *

 

II. Midday

He was forty-four and his rugged pony trotted determinedly through the Dunland towards the refugee camp. A waft of dust flew into his eyes, but he brushed it away. The dust was eternal, as perpetual as the air itself. It coated the gray tents, wore at the threadbare travel clothes, blew into the food, and coated the weathered faces and tight-lipped mouths of his people. Its constant presence served as a relentless reminder of how far his people had fallen, how much had been lost, and (this was the part that truly boiled his blood) how little Thorin could do about it.

And so the prince of Erebor held back his cries of rage while he slowly watched the last of their pride slip like sand into the breeze, his people turn to dust.

The sun glowed high overhead as he entered the camp. As soon as Thorin dismounted, a blonde-haired dwarf seized him in an enthusiastic hug.

“Brother!” cried the blonde dwarf, releasing a slightly shell-shocked Thorin from his grasp. He had a glow about him that no amount of dust could dull.

“Frerin,” said Thorin, smiling beside himself once he had recovered. “How goes it, little brother?”

They exchanged pleasantries and news about each with the other. Frerin gave a far brighter report of conditions in the camp than Thorin could believe, but he did not deny his brother aloud.

After finishing his report, Frerin asked eagerly, “Did ya’ come across any orcs or wargs along your way?”

“No,” was Thorin’s terse reply. “And I’m glad of it.”

“Aw, c’mon, you’re no fun.” Frerin licked his lips and a chill unexpectedly slipped through Thorin’s bones.

“War isn’t fun,” Thorin growled.

“Neither is kicking your boots idly about the badlands with nothing to do,” replied Frerin. He ran a finger over the blade of a bone-hilted knife. “I‘ve been dying to give this its first taste of goblin blood.” Before Thorin could reprimand him, Frerin added, “Ah! I nearly forgot; Father wanted you to see him as soon as it was convenient.”

A grumble from the elder brother’s lips as the blonde-haired dwarf all but skipped away. Then Thorin stalked towards the largest tent of the camp, the seal of Durin emblazoned in faded color on its side. Inside, a gray-haired dwarf stood erect with his hands clasped behind his back. He still bore the noble robes of the Erebor court, despite the layer of dust clinging to the thick fur coat and gold thread trim. Meanwhile, a squat, frazzled-face dwarf wrote furiously at a desk blanketed by rolls of parchment.

“Thorin.” Thrain flashed his son a warm, but unsmiling look.

“Fa- M’lord, I’ve returned.” Thorin quickly bowed his head in respect to the steward king (appointed so after Thror’s hasty departure on a mission to parts unknown).

“Leave us,” commanded the steward king, turning his gaze at the dwarf scribbling at the messy desk. The scribe let out a little squeak of fright before hurrying out of the room. The two guards by the entrance hesitated, but at Thrain’s nod also strode outside.

“Now,” pronounced his father once they were alone, “how goes the work abroad?”

Thorin stiffened instantly, even though this was nothing but ordinary procedure for each work mission. “Well enough,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “The men may not be the fairest employers” – _they spit and sneer at us as if we were dogs, no, less than dogs_ – “but there is work to be found” – _for half the pay we deserve._ “It is…harder than I had expected.” _To grit your teeth when innkeepers rob you blind. To hold back the fire on your tongue the hundredth time a man, woman, or child taunts your race. To be a prince of a mountain filled with gold, now forced to serve dogs and swine._

Thorin looked up and found his father’s eyes boring into his skull, scouring his face with a fiery intensity that Thorin made himself withstand.

A while later, the steward king whispered, “Would you rather work or beg?”

The question jolted Thorin, rendering him speechless. Not that he needed to answer, because there was only one answer. Begging was never an option, not even a fathomable one. _But still…_ “How long must this go on though?” asked Thorin, his eyes fixed upon the dusty rug at his father’s feet. _How long must I degrade myself to these low-life knaves?_

He knew the answer before it passed through Thrain’s stern mouth: “As long as necessary, my son.” He rested a rough hand on Thorin’s shoulder; father and son were now of the same height. “There is no shame in the work, however humble, you and your comrades do, for it is to serve your people; and that is your lifelong responsibility, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, descended from Durin the Deathless himself.” The swell of pride in his voice was unmistakable. “It is your duty to lead them, today by blacksmith’s mallet, and someday by kingly scepter.” And with that Thrain gave him a rare, fatherly smile and a small warmth enveloped Thorin’s chest, as if the sun had chosen to shine on him.

Which then turned into flames licking his cheeks with shame. His father could have, _should have_ reprimanded him for his pettiness. Of course he was not above this work; it was not a matter of personal dignity in working for the menfolk, it was a matter of his people and their pride, a matter of lifting them to their feet after having fallen so hard since Smaug and the fa- not fall, _loss_ of Erebor. For it would be regained, he was stubbornly sure of it; it had to be. And until that day (and ever after) he would be at the service of his people.

For that was his birthright, and also his burden.

Thrain crossed the room towards the desk in measured steps, fingering the pile of parchment with a frown.

“M’lord.” Thorin suddenly remembered something he wanted to say.

The steward king looked about at his son patiently. “Mhm?”

The words stuck like sandpaper in Thorin’s throat. “If it is decided,” he said slowly, “that another orc raid party is necessary, please do not let Frerin join it.”

Thrain shot a quizzical eyebrow up and Thorin felt himself gulp. “Frerin is older than you were when your sword first tasted goblin blood, older than I was.”

“But m’lord,” Thorin was careful to say, “that doesn’t mean he needs to-”

“It’s admirable how you’ve looked out for your brother since your mother died.” Thorin’s jaw twitched. The pain of the queen-to-be’s death had long since dulled, but not disappeared; imagining his mother screaming as dark dragon fire turned her to a puff of smoke, a pile of ash…. “But you and I must both let him go. In the end, I cannot control his actions.”

 _Wrong._ It would be a snap of his fingers to command Frerin not to go. Thorin was not trying to mother his little brother, and of course he would have to learn of the pains of the world someday. But in his mind’s eye, he saw the eternal smile Frerin bore, never pulled down by burdens and memories of suffering. And there was a dark, wriggling feeling in his gut about Frerin going into battle…  

“I will talk with him,” assured his father, then proceeding to give Thorin the gesture of dismissal. Thorin opened his mouth, then closed it with a frown. He turned on his heel towards the tent entrance, trying to quell the anger boiling in his throat. Hi brother and his father both took a small relish in war. They saw the glory and honor in blood and battle while quiet, bookish Thorin only saw the screams and squelching flesh. _If they are to talk_ , Thorin thought with an edge of bitterness, _it would not be of what should be talked about_

Just as he reached the tent flap, but a small, black-haired figure nearly bowled him over, instead stalking briskly towards the steward king.

“Dis!” Thrain barked at the wild mass of black hair. “What have I told you about barging in without ann- oh Mahal, what’s the matter?” It was then Thorin noticed his sister’s shaking shoulders, her pale, stricken face.

“Father it’s…it’s…” Dis’ spoke in choked whispers. “The king is dead.”

 

* * *

 

III. Dusk

He was fifty-three and his hands were soaked in black-red blood. The earth reeked of death and rot beneath the clear winter sky. Its wintry soil choked with the blood seeping from countless limbs, countless mangled bodies, countless mouths contorted in horror, dwarf and orc alike, stretching for miles and miles towards the gates of Moria, battered and desecrated.

It was like a dream when Balin quietly called him to “come”; his limbs felt like granite, yet somehow he managed to float like a ghost above the carpet of torn flesh and twisted faces. It was all so surreal; nothing felt right, none of it could be real. In due time he would wake up, he would wake up…

The blonde-haired body lying at his feet was fake, too. It looked all wrong. First of all, the body here was a pale yellow-blue marble, while Frerin glowed like golden flax. The eyes were foggy glass, while Frerin’s eyes sparkled, full of wonder at the world whose pains he knew little of. And the face did not smile – fear distorted its mangled mouth – while Frerin, he knew, never stopped smiling, was never afraid.

Thorin told Balin this, about the mistake that must have been made. But the warrior only shook his gray mane, closing his eyes tight as if the air would sear his vision, saying over and over again, “I’m sorry, Thorin. I’m so sorry.”

 _But it’s a lie!_ he wanted to shout. It wasn’t his brother whose torso was flung apart like a young doe ravaged by wolves, it wasn’t his brother whose face was missing chunks of flesh, whose legs were sprawled so ignobly about a bed of mauled orcs, whose golden hair was matted with blood and muck and no longer shined. It wasn’t Frerin that he collapsed to his knees beside, it wasn’t Frerin that he reached out with dumb hands to touch, whose cold shoulder he gripped tight and pulled into his own body, it wasn’t it wasn’t it couldn’t be _it can’t no no no please oh Mahal no no he can’t be no…_

The sickening smell of sun-rotted corpse filled his nose as Thorin thrust his face into the dwarf’s bloody shoulder. His tongue tasted foul goblin blood as he ground his teeth into the mail coal that muffled his screams and set his eyes ablaze.

Minutes became hours.

What was light became heavy, and heavy light.

The world was a collection of puddles twisting and muddling together.

All the while, Thorin slowly rocked back and forth, back and forth, just him and his dead baby brother while the world around him could burn and freeze and collapse in on itself for all he cared.

_Brother…_

_Oh brother, I’m sorry. I failed you…._

_Brother, please…_

_Take me with you._

Heavy footsteps treading beside him. Lifting his aching head, Thorin felt unsurprised to see the shadow of Thrain against the burning winter sun. Unsurprised; perhaps because Balin had told him a moment ago, or had it been a hundred years. It didn’t matter. _Nothing matters._ _My brother. Oh my dear brother. Menu tessu; you are everything to me…_

“Oh Mahal,” Thorin heard his father whisper. “No, this cannot be…” His voice was so soft, so broken that it sent another shard of glass through Thorin’s already battered heart. A soft thump as the king bent down on one knee. His eyes were enveloped with what was left of the blonde dwarf in Thorin’s arms. “ _Gajut men_ , my son, _gajut men_ …”

“He is dead,” Thorin managed to choke out.

His father looked up, seeming to finally realize that Thorin was there. “I am so sorry, Thorin, I am…”

“He didn’t have to be here,” Thorin whispered. His insides began burning red-hot.

“There was nothing you could do, I could do, nothing anyone-” The king’s head dropped with a loll, shaking slowly. Thorin saw a flash of something he had never seen; then broken man beneath the thick iron shell of his father. For a moment, pity gripped his heart. But then he remembered whose limp body he was clutching and up boiled the fury once again.

He rubbed his wrinkled face, wincing as it passed over the blotchy-red bandage on his left-eye. “Thorin, get up.”

Thorin’s head snapped up in astonishment. Before him knelt the king, calm and collected, commanding his subject. Somehow the coolness in Thrain stirred the boiling red sea inside Thorin even more. But the faithful son did obey, letting the waxen weight slip from his shaking arms, not even wincing as the body thumped gracelessly to the ground, and faced his king.

“Your brother has fallen,” declared the king stonily, “as an honorable dwarf; in battle, fighting for his people.” The words were stiff and hollow; it was as if he were addressing a royal court on a matter like taxes. “He sacrificed himself for-”

“For what?” All eyes whipped towards Thorin in horror. He ignored them, fixing his eyes upon the king.

Thrain’s eyes became fiery slits at the blatant defiance shown by his son. “For the good,” he said threateningly, “of our people.”

“Pity,” spat Thorin, “that so few will be able to see it.”

The words fell like a thunderclap. Never had he so openly challenged his father, but the red sea of anger churning in his stomach drove him on.

“Thorin.” The king’s brow darkened like storm clouds. “You forget your place; there is no excuse for-"

“Frerin was thirty-eight, and yet here he was.” Thorin realized then he was shaking. “Now here he lies! You could’ve stopped him. You could’ve ordered him not to come-”

“Thorin, you forget your place!” The king was close to losing his temper.

Thorin, meanwhile, had already lost it. “If you loved him, you never would’ve let him go! _You killed my brother! You killed hi-_ ”

 _Smack_. Thorin staggered back, more shocked by the slap itself than the actual pain. He reached up a shaking hand to his cheek; the blow stung, flaring sharp on his jaw. He blinked, unable to move, unable to comprehend what had happened.

Thrain was also stunned, his eyes wide and bewildered as he gazed dumbly at the hand that had cuffed his son across the face. “Thorin-”

“No.” It came out in a strangled whisper, and Thorin sunk further into humiliation. His eyes riveted themselves to the blood-stained earth, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze, and certainly not Thrain. He suddenly felt empty, his insides hollow like paper boxes, as if his eruption had wrung him dry and now he had nothing left in his heart to give

“Son,” An shard of ice into his wilted chest. The hard, cold king disappeared and out emerged the father. He reached a trembling hand out to Thorin with a heart-wrenchingly pitiable gaze. “Son, I didn’t mean t-”

“ _Don’t_. _Touch me._ ” He glared coldly at his father. He had no more pity to give. He felt as dead and cold inside as the bodies lying about his feet.

Thrain hesitated, his lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but ultimately he gave a tiny nod, retracting his hand slowly as if Thorin had whipped it.

But Thorin had no more pity to give. And before the king could ask what he was doing, Thorin knelt down, scooped up the mangled remains of his brother, and stalked off into the woods with a huff.

Not one look back did he give, and not one word did the dwarves nearby say as the prince walked off to bury his brother.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was nearly in tears writing about Thorin mourning Frerin; that was really hard. Good god, I am unable to not write angst.
> 
> Notes:  
> 1\. The story about Durin and the Mirrormere is an ancient dwarven legend. Everyone is able to see the stars, but only Durin could see his reflection. I used LOTR Wikia and Tolkien Gateway for most of the details about it, so forgive me if I fucked that up terribly.  
> 2\. Everything about Thorin's mother (including when she was pregnant with Frerin) was made up.  
> 3\. Everything about Frerin's characterization was made up.  
> 4\. This story follows the books' plots largely, but I've only experienced the movie version of The Hobbit, so that got tagged too.  
> [Updated 6/1] 5. _Menu tessu_ means "you are everything." _Gajut men_ means "forgive me".
> 
> Thank you very much for reading this drabble. Comments, critiques, and messages are totally welcomed!


	2. Chapter 2

IV. Nightfall

He was seventy-eight and a hundred little lights glittered across like stars in the navy-blue veil of the valley. All was quiet. His people had finally settled in Ered Luin; inch by inch as the houses had gone up and the road were laid and the markets became busy, the dwarves rebuilt their sense of home, of belonging. Thorin smoked contently on his pipe, his feet kicked up on the wooden ramparts of the royal halls, and watched night curl up over the valley. A little twinge reminded him that their true home remained infested by a fire-breathing worm but no, he would not think of that tonight, not while swaying men were roaring in the pubs, not while women were clucking over their knitting by the hearth, not while children ran giddily about the trees without head to mothers’ warnings, while the bakers’ ovens prepared to rumble at the dawn and the blacksmiths’ hammers clanged into the night.

Durin’s Folk had settled into ordinary life again, and ordinary was good.

Life was good.

“M’lord.” A pinched-face servant stood nervously at attention by Thorin’s side. “The king calls upon your presence.”

The prince was silent for a moment, then his lips puckered and released one last smoke ring. “Lead me away.”

The attendant, apparently much relieved, replied, “Very good, my lord.” He had missed Thorin’s wry tone.

In the throne room, the king sat alone, apart from two statue-like guards on either side of his throne. Thrain’s head was tilted, his cheeks were a dull gray, and the royal fur coat dwarfed his haggard body. He looked up and something warmed in his face at the sight of Thorin. Only for a moment, though, so brief that Thorin thought he imagined it. His footsteps echoed in thunderous whispers about the chamber as he slowly approached the throne.

“Thorin.”

“You called, your majesty?” The prince spoke with ice.

The king flinched as if burned. “Erm,” he said most unregally. “How do the people fare? Any news as of late?”

Thorin reported brusquely that there was little to tell; trade was picking up steadily, farms had fair harvests this year, some had begun exploring the mines of old Belegost, and people had little to complain about.

“Good, good.” The king bobbed his head, absently fidgeting with a black ring on his right hand. All of a sudden, he leapt up and glared around the room. “Everyone out.”

The attendant who had led Thorin in nearly jumped in astonishment. “My lord?”

“I was old before you were born, boy, you’ve no excuse to not have heard me. Everyone, out. Except you, Thorin,” as the prince turned to leave. Thrain regarded him with an unreadable expression. “I wish to talk to you in private.”

Thorin saw the glances of half-worry, half-pity towards the king. Whispers slipped around regularly about the soundness of his mind; this was not Thrain’s first outburst and the memories of the madness that ensnared Thorin’s grandfather, Thror, had not yet faded. Oh, how Thorin wanted to see the king’s stricken face by passing those whispers along to him. But something held his tongue, something he felt now looking upon the threadbare back of Thrain’s royal fur coat, the faded family crest engraved on the throne.

Once emptied, the chamber fell silent and solemn like a temple.

The king turned towards Thorin in slow, viscous movements. “H-How goes it, Thorin?” he asked, his lips forming an uncertain half-smile.

Thorin cocked his eyebrows in confusion. “…I am well, m’lord.”

“Once I insisted upon you calling me ‘father’ when we were alone.” The king looked into Thorin’s eyes. His smile turned sad and thin. “But alas, I will not today.”

The prince’s throat twisted itself, but on the surface his stoniness remained. His tongue held still, his jaw held firm.

The king turned away again, wistfully gazing at the tapestry-covered walls. “It’s been twenty-five years…”

A wave of surprise swelled in Thorin. The king remembered the date after all, when the earth was drenched in blood, the air was soaked with death…

“Dis still does not speak to me.”

His sister’s wailing and beating her fists when only one of her brothers returned to her.

“She departed for the Iron Hills two months ago,” replied Thorin. The blunt knife in his voice bounded off the wall and into himself.

 “Oh, did she?”

_Where’s Frerin – he’s gone – Where – to the halls of Mandos – Liar! Oathbreakers, the both of you! Where’s my brother. Where’s Frerin…Frerin…Frerin…_

“She forgot to say goodbye.” The king’s voice fell soft, a hint of a quiver. “She never said goodbye to me…”

 _Goodbye brother,_ and his sister was gone. _Goodbye brother_ , and his brother was dead. All that remained was him and his father. Him and his father…

“Thorin?”

The prince stood by the door, gripping the iron handle with a trembling hand, but made himself look back across the hall. His father’s face was one he’d never seen before; one of a dwarf broken and battered, his heart stamped and shattered, watching with horror as his one remaining child was about to leave him.

And then it was gone and the king overtook him, stern and wrathful. “You have failed to ask for leave,” Thrain declared.

Stone once again swallowed Thorin’s heart. The prince turned towards the door, refusing to look back. It felt much heavier now, more loaded with grief and pain. “Would your Majesty give me leave?” he said low to the oaken door.

“You will look me in the eye like a man first.”

Thorin whipped around and shot daggers at the king, his hands shaking in white-hot fury. “Would your most _honorable_ liege,” he snarled, “grant his most _humble_ servant leave to go to bed?”

Silence clutched the room in icy tendrils. Father and son shot arrows of fire through each other’s gazes. Thorin remembered bitterly how he’d once looked up to this dwarf as great and noble, a bright and burnished force to be reckoned with. But now, the king seemed to hide beneath lavish furs and noble robes, afraid that someone will find out that he was the gray, mottled shell of his former self, someone Thorin once called father.

A question slipped its way into his mind like a poisonous needle. _Who had really changed after all this time: the dwarf himself or the one looking upon him?_

 “I do.” The king finally gave in. “You are dismissed.”

The oaken door crashed to a close behind Thorin’s storming steps.

_Who had changed: the father or the son?_

* * *

 V. Midnight

He was ninety-five and still dreamt of dragon fire. It hurtled in monstrous waves about the mannish town, a swelling torrent of scorching light and whirling flame. Billowing walls of black smoke, choking and blinding, raging and ravaging all in its path. The terrible screams ringing in his head as dwarves and men became naught but charcoal and someone in the muddled dark crying _Thorin…Thorin…_

 _Thorin_ …

“…oy, Thorin, wake up!”

He bolted upright like a shot. His hand whipped out the knife under his pillow and it flew to mere inches from the dark throat of a grim-faced dwarf with an all too recognizable mohawk.

“Dwalin,” Thorin hissed, dropping the knife with a huff of relief. “I swear to Mahal that if this is some joke-”

“’Tisn’t. No offense, m’lord, but I don’t get my kicks by wakin’ ye at small hours.”

“Then who does?” He grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“The king. He wants t’ see you.”

Thorin’s suddenly wakeful eyes flicked up to Dwalin. “At this hour? What could possibly be-”

“He’ll have t’ tell ya himself.”

Thorin fell silent. A heavy sigh escaped his nose. Upon the thatched roof drummed the solemn, steady hymn of rain.

He found the king pacing his chambers, muttering softly into his fingers. When the oaken door closed, Thrain whipped his head towards the door in a start. He looked as if he had not slept in days. “Hush, hush!” He flapped his hands at Thorin. “Do you wish to wake the whole household?”

Thorin merely took a deep, exasperated breath. “What is it now?”

“I’m leaving. Tonight.” The king stopped pacing to stare hard at Thorin. His robe had fallen askew off one shoulder and his hair and beard had been a tangled mess for weeks.

The prince shook his head softly, trying to hold back his frustration  “No, father, you’re leaving for the Iron Hills in a fortnight -”

“No. I depart for Erebor. Tonight.”

Six words. Yet they managed to engulf the room like millions of hot, invisible balls of wools. Six words, yet they fell like iron sledgehammers upon the anvil in Thorin’s head. Six words, and the rain may still be pounding and the world may have looked the same, but it wasn’t.

“ _What?_ ” Thorin choked out at last. “ _Are you mad-_ “

“Far from it, my son. I’ve never felt so alive in my life.” His eye glittered and shone more than it had in decades, but in a way that Thorin had never seen before. “I had a dream, one night ago; I was in a cave, dark and dank, but in the corner of my eye came a small glimmer. I sought for it, floating towards it like a dwarf entranced. The light grew stronger and stronger, until it nearly flooded the cave in splendid blue light; the Arkenstone.” Dazzled, as if the legendary stone were right before his eyes, the king reached out a hand. “I picked it up, but as soon as I touched it was gone. I looked down and found my hands filled with blood.”

The king then looked hard at the prince. “It is an omen; the Arkenstone is a mark of our family’s divine right to rule. The blood was that of our people who lost their lives because of the foul, wriggling worm that took it from us.”

“M’lord-”

“Mahal has given me my purpose: to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

“Father, in Durin’s name-”

“The Arkenstone is calling, my son; Erebor is calling.”

Upon the roof of the hall, the rain fell in muffled sheets, the sound drumming on Thorin’s heart.

Thrain stood still and tall like an oaken masthead, so unbearably solemn and serious about this whole hare-brained scheme that Thorin felt he was about to boil over in frustration.

What he did instead surprised even himself. He looked up at the king, dead in the eye, and said, “Then go.”

Thrain blinked at him. The candle lit in his face was blown out by a frosty wind. “What?”

“Go, go to Erebor,” said Thorin, his insides sagging with cold, heavy stone. “Let Smaug turn you into a puff of ashes, go leave the people you would so willingly abandon. And good riddance.” And with that, his stone body turned its back on the pale king without a bow and took plodding steps towards the door.

“Son,” his father said in a voice like tattered wool, “was the Mirrormere so long ago?”

This stopped Thorin in his tracks for a moment. But ultimately he willed himself the strength to grab the door handle and rip it open, letting it slam behind him as he slowed to a weak-kneed amble to his room, until finally in a dark, empty hallway he collapsed against the wall, unable to carry the cold, grinding rock inside himself

He wondered when the king had first begun to lock himself in his study, poring over old maps and ancient texts for hours on end.  
He wondered when the king finally sunk into this madness, this obsession with reclaiming Erebor.  
He though about the last time king and prince were in fact father and son.  
About the last time his father had been proud of him, had smiled upon him and ruffled his hair.  
About the last time his family truly was a family.  
He wondered if it had truly been so long ago.  
And if it would ever be so again.  
If he would ever have a father again.  
If this was the last chance he ever would have to have a father again.

He wondered if the valley of Dale was in bloom this time of year.

And in that moment, Thorin was not the crown prince of Durin’s Folk. The dwarf who rushed off to his room to pack a rucksack was not the next in line as king of Ered Luin. It was a small boy who needed to believe in his father again. It was a boy who wanted nothing better than to see his father smile with pride again.

When Thorin met his father, Dwalin, and a small group of determined guardsmen at the gate, he somehow knew in the darkness that his father’s lips had cracked into a small smile. The rain had passed, but the inky expanse overhead held no stars or moon. There was nothing to light their path into the rocky mountain passes.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more section to go. It's about to get sadder.  
> Notes: (ALMOST EVERYTHING HERE IS SPOILERS)  
> 1\. For those who don't know the story: in 2841, Thrain, Thorin and a small group of dwarves set out to reclaim Erebor from Ered Luin. Why the king and his son decided it was a good idea to have _both_ of them go on a suicide mission, I have no idea. But one day, Thorin and the others awoke to find his father having vanished; Thrain decided to take the map and key and go reclaim the mountain himself (the line of Durin was well-know for its brilliance and fabulous planning skills). That's when he was captured by the Necromancer and tortured into insanity.  
>  2\. Everything about Dis is made-up since her life is so unaccounted for by Tolkien.  
> 3\. "To strive, to seek..." comes from a poem called "Ulysses" by Lord Alfred Tennyson, which tells about Odysseus' life post-Odyssey, how he's bored in Ithaca and decides to go on one last adventure (most likely to his death). Hmm, who does that remind you of....?  
> 4\. Thrain's vision could also be interpreted as predicting his son's eventual death...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of this ficlet; or the one time Thrain didn't call upon his son.

VI. Daybreak

Thorin woke to sunlight slipping through the window slats onto his bed. He kneaded his hand across his face, dragging weathered skin along with its sweep. Heavy aches sunk against his chest like sandbags as he rose; soreness, he half-lied to himself. His senses still drenched with sleep, he half-believed it.

Morning was the most tolerable time of day. The stillness of night mingled with the promise of a new day in the sun’s waking rays; peace reigned in his mind, but not tainted with the darkness that seeped in at night.

For at night, he dreamt of dragon fire and blue marble.

Knock knock. “Come in,” mumbled Thorin reflexively.

“Morning, sire.” A young attendant strode across the room with a bounce in his step. “Oh.” The lad turned as red as a beet all of a sudden. Thorin in his groggy state wondered why; but then his head lolled down and his bare torso met his gaze; he, having just awoke, was still in his smallclothes.

“It’s a torso, lad. Nothing more.” A bite wandered its way into Thorin’s sleepy tone. The boy flinched as if stung. Thorin calmly crossed the room to his wardrobe, waiting for the attendant to realize that a bloody death was not in fact imminent for him.

“Erm, um, I h-have your clasps for your braids, m’lord, when you’re ready-”

“I can braid my own beard, thank you.”

“Um, urgh, r-right. M’lord.” The boy jerked his head down to the floor. A brilliant red had engulfed his entire face now. “And L-Lord Balin said for you to meet him in his study when you’re r-ready, sire.”

“Tell him to join me for breakfast.” Thorin nodded grimacing. He was not looking forward to whatever matters Balin wanted him to attend to, but best to get them over with. Work put his mind off of other things. “Has the King called upon me yet?”

For some reason, this gobsmacked the lad. Even the guards at the edge of the room (Dwalin’s orders) quirked their heads a little. “S-sorry? M’lord!” He shoved the formality at the end.

“The king. Has he called upon my presence yet?” Thorin raised an impatient eyebrow. Why were they looking at him so strangely?

Never had he seen so many colors in the face of one dwarf before. Nor had he seen someone’s capacity for language drain out of him like milk from a slit bag.

“M-M-M’lord,” whispered the lad, as pale as the moon. “Y-You are the king, m-m’lord.”

_…Oh._

He was 120 and 25 years came rushing back into his drowsy brain, bowling it over into wakefulness.

_…Right._

How feeble and ridiculous that sounded in his mind; thank Mahal he had the fortitude not to say it aloud. As if he could simply forget he was king. As if 25 years could so easily slip his mind. As if he could ever forget that night…that night.

“Get out.”

“P-P-Pardon, what, m-m’lord?” stammered the lad.

“You heard me and I won’t say it again. Out. Everyone! OUT!”

He didn’t care if the floorboards shuddered from his roar. He didn’t care that the lad nearly tumbled backwards to leap out of the room, that even the guards jumped a bit as they exited the room. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

 _That night_.

* * *

_The rain pummeled onto his face, as it had for the three days prior. Highly irritating; it meant that the ground was too soft for the ponies, and there was no chance for a fire. And so they were stuck in the mud, all too literally._

_Thorin tugged the soggy blanket closer, as if it could really help him keep warm at this point. The rock beneath was starting to make him sore, but he paid it no mind. He just fixed his drooping eyes upon the gray expanse of wet forest, keeping watch as the rest of the company slept in their sopping tents._

_The rest of the dwarves, save one._

_“Thorin,” spoke the ever-firm baritone of his father. Thrain too pulled a wool blanket about himself as he trod gingerly towards Thorin. Thorin frowned; was he injured? Ill?_

_“Are you well, m’lord?”_

_“Fine. I’m fine, son.” The king grimaced. “Just the damn rain.”_

_Thorin wasn’t so sure, but to hear ‘son’ was warming to his chilled bones._

_“Go get some sleep,” urged Thrain. A half-smile twitched beneath his soaking beard. “I’ll keep watch.” He gave an impatient wave at Thorin’s hesitation. “Go on.”_

_Was there something lingering in his eye? A twitch of his nose? A falter in the smile beneath the gray, rain-stained beard? Was there something Thorin missed that should’ve warn him? There had to be. There had to be…_

_“I’ll wake Dwalin-” started Thorin in a sleepy rumble._

_“No need,” Thrain replied sharply, but then a reassuring half-smile. “I can still take care of myself.”_

_Thorin merely nodded and strode to his tent, mud squishing beneath his feet. His back was to the king when he mumbled over his shoulder, “Good night, father.”_

_“Good night, son.”_

_There was something in the tone, something unusually sad and somber, some emotion Thorin couldn’t quite place. But it slipped a needle into his spine and he should’ve listened to it, oh Mahal, he should’ve listened. But instead he attributed the tone to the rain, the effect it was having on him, on all of them, and so he crawled into his tent and flopped down to sleep._

_Why didn’t he listen?_

_Why didn’t he listen?_

* * *

He found himself in the throne room, blinking and swaying slightly. …No, he couldn’t quite remember how he got here. But his hands, clutching dumbly at his torso, found a dark blue tunic. Good, he had gotten dressed. A gurgle in his stomach. No, he had not eaten.

It was all coming back to him now. All coming back like a rushing, burbling brook over his head…

* * *

_The rain had stopped and a moonless night’s inky black veil had settled over them. Squish-squish-squish went his heavy boots as he hurried through the woods. His clothes, still damp and leaden, clung to his chilled skin, but his blood raced hard and hot in his veins. Tree and rock and creature were merely shades of black before his blind eyes, but still he plunged into the woods._

_Heavy footsteps followed behind him._

_“M’lord!”_

_“My king, where’ve you gone?”_

_“King Thrain!” boomed the prince. “Father!”_

_He did not know how long it’d been since they found the rock vacant and the king missing, along with the map and key. He did not know how long they searched into the night. But it did not feel so long as the moment when the company regrouped, heaving to catch their breath, fearful eyes darting to each other’s._

_An orc raid was ruled out; the entire company would have been slaughtered. The next possibility was kidnapping, that the king was held hostage. They found no other tracks besides their own, no sign of anyone else having been there. Perhaps washed away in the rain? Perhaps._

_None said a word about the dwindling evidence that the king had left against his will. None said a word as the theory of the kidnapped king silently toppled in on itself. None dared imply that Thrain, son of Thror, leader of their people, had…had…_

_Until Thorin, after a month of searching and scouring a land, stonily ordered the company to return home._

_Silence ruled their hearts the entire way home._

* * *

And now that same silence clamped over his heart again. It pressed in from the dark wooden walls, from the echo of his footsteps in the empty hall.  But the sharpest force of all came from right in front of him; a wooden throne, regally carved, beneath the faded blue banner of the house of Durin. The throne was empty.

It pounded into his chest like a harpoon, knocking him to his knees.

_The first to leave was his mother, swallowed by the inferno that seized his home and brought the world crashing down until there was naught left but dust._

It slipped into his throat and strangled him, immersing his lungs and drowning him.

_The next to leave was his grandfather, struck down by the Pale Orc, the embodiment of the king’s own foolish pride._

It beated against his heart that now clanged like iron war hammers against his ribs.

_Next went Frerin, his own baby brother, ravaged of his sunshine by blood and cold iron._

It blurred the world into puddles before his treacherous eyes.

_And at last, his father, who said “Good night” and abandoned him. Or didn't. Thorin would never know._

It brought torrential rain down through the ceiling to drip down his cheeks.

_They all left. They all left Thorin behind._

_He was alone._

_Alone._

Thorin had never taken the time to weep for the fallen. He had always pushed ahead, shoved the pain in a box at the back of his mind. But something inside him had snapped; the box had overfilled, the lock had burst, and it was all coming back to him now in a monstrous torrent that beat him, swirled him, sucked the air from his lungs, and left him a broken, heaving mess on the throne room floor.

_Empty, silent, alone._

And so he wept for them, and he wept for himself, for the broken dwarf left behind.

_Alone._

A flutter, and Thorin whirled around and sucked in his breath. No one there, just the breeze catching on a peculiar green banner on the wall. Not as grand as the blue banner of Durin’s house of course, but it bore a familiar crest. A slit of sunlight from the window stretched across it.

He was suddenly reminded of a conversation he had had with a blonde-haired dwarf (a different blonde from Frerin’s; more like wheat than gold), nearly three years ago.

_“Some say there is a curse upon the blood of Durin,” he admitted to the noble-faced man as they paced about the wooden ramparts._

_“What do you mean, m’lord?” Thorin was sure that the blonde dwarf knew exactly what he meant._

_“Much loss has befallen our family, and our people as a result. Time and fate have cut the family tree down to a mere stump, and the roots have all but withered and rotten. The line is dead. And perhaps” – he dropped his head – “it is for the better.”_

_A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, so much like his father’s that Thorin winced and the hand was withdrawn apologetically. “M’lord, Thorin, my kin,” said the blonde-haired dwarf slowly. “When a tree has gone gray and barren, that does not mean it’s dead. Perhaps it is merely winter – a long and cold one. But spring will come and the tree will blossom again.” He smiled. “Hope’s not gone yet, m’lord.”_

_The king had to smile back. “Your words are comforting, Vili; let’s hope they’re true.”_

As the sun rose further in the sky, the slit of light on the green banner (the banner of the Ironfists, of Vili’s clan) grew stronger. Sunshine all stretched onto the grant Durin blue banner above the throne. The wear and tear of time suddenly disappeared, and the banner seemed to glow in a near ethereal magnificence, for the first time since Thorin could remember. Naturally superstitious, all dwarves are, Thorin couldn’t help but wonder if it was a sign.

A loud, rude knocking at the door. Thorin knew exactly who it was. He wiped away the salty rain with a thorough hand; thankfully his eyes had dried already. The box had released a river long dammed up within him, and now the pain simmered to a mere ache. He felt refreshed.

_Perhaps, Vili is right after all. The tree may not be dead, but dormant. Perhaps there will be a springtime to come._

His springtime came bursting into the hall seconds later; a bobbing pair of boys, blonde and brown-haired. Their cry echoed across the once solemn throne room.

“Uncle!”

A secret smile curled on his lips and in his heart.

_Perhaps, there is hope after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, wow. That was probably entirely out of character for Thorin to have a complete and utter meltdown, but his life is kind of a big mountain of shit.
> 
> 1\. Vili is the presumed canonical husband of Dis. The thing about the family banners is totally made up.  
> 2\. What happened with Thrain is canon. He left to go reclaim Erebor by himself (the Durins are full of dwarves who make poor life choices) and was captured by the Necromancer and tortured into insanity. Thorin never knew until Gandalf told him in Bree.
> 
> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!


End file.
